


how sincerely did you love me

by too_much_in_the_sun



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, amen why's it so hard to tag for these nerds, but also smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_in_the_sun/pseuds/too_much_in_the_sun
Summary: Modern Frankenstein AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OK, here's the brief warning: there's a lot of incompetently-written smut in here, but I've marked the two chapters for which that holds, so you can skip those parts when they come up. 
> 
> This fic is a mix of two separate drafts, which I had to scrape out of my Tumblr and reassemble into what you're about to read. The first draft, which comprises the three chapters after this one, would have been written in the fall of 2010. The second draft, which was much longer but now only survives as the introduction you're about to read, was written in fall 2014. Each chapter has notes giving the date on which it was posted to Tumblr, so you get some indication of the chronology involved.
> 
> I managed to fish some of my original planning notes out of my Tumblr as well; they appear in chapter five.
> 
> Posted on Tumblr: 2 November 2014.

Victor tells me that we ought to consider writing our biographies.

I’m not so sure. After all, he’s only twenty-one, and I am twenty-three. From his tone, it’s as if he thinks the most important part of our lives is behind us.

Well, his life, really. I wasn’t really involved in much of the action until late in the game, and mostly by accident. But for whatever reason he considers me an integral part of the story, and I’m willing to accept the compliment.

From my point of view, we’re in something of a lull at the moment, contrary to his opinion that we’ve already reached our peak as individuals. His thesis is… somewhere, being discussed by some committee. Even Victor isn’t allowed to talk about it too much, which makes me think the military have gotten their hands on his findings.

And of course there’s the remaining issue of his health. I don’t know if he’ll ever be the same again. He was never very athletic, always a sickly child, but it’s as if he put something intangible and unrecoverable into his work this time around, something that might never be replaced.

One of the other problems is that I don’t know where, or rather when, to start the story. When he was born? When we first met? Or sometime closer to the end?

Victor knows why he wants this story told. Of the two of us, he’s the only one who does. But he doesn’t know _how_ he wants it told, and that’s the problem I’ve been having. What kind of story am I telling? Is this a romance, a roman-a-clef, a horror story, a science fiction tale?

I don’t know. Sometimes I think he keeps me around because, unlike him, I have no problem admitting when I don’t have a clue about something. One of us had to be a voice of reason, after all, and that was where I found myself. Being friends for so long has had a definite effect on our personalities, I can tell you that much.

Things aren’t over yet, not by a long shot. I think he wants to get his side of the story out as quickly as possible, before his work starts being weaponized and gets classified above our heads. And before it inevitably breaks on the news media.

Also, this is Victor we’re talking about. He loves attention, even though if you asked him he’d demurely deny that. Somehow he’s the only person I know who combines shyness, haughtiness, and a need for attention.

Well, I don’t think he’ll have any problem getting attention when this story finally hits the media.

If I ever finish it.

I guess there are some concerns of privacy I should address before I try to tell you this story.

These are our real names – Henry Clerval, yours truly. Victor Frankenstein. Elizabeth Lavenza. And our families. You can look us up on Facebook if you like, though our pages are mostly cluttered with well-wishes from distant relatives these days.

But while Victor and I (and Liz) have agreed that we don’t mind releasing our real names, I know that a lot of mundane people enter into this story, mostly around the edges of it, and that they wouldn’t want their names to be known. And none of us want a stream of creeps showing up at the houses of our families or our own apartments, taking photographs and chiseling away souvenirs.

To that end, I’ve changed the names of the minor players, and I’m not going to tell you where exactly we live.

Let’s just say that we all grew up in a city on the edge of a lake, and that Victor and I went to college in a town at the foot of a mountain range.

And to further set the scene, I’ll tell you it’s no sylvan, forested paradise – our hometown is on the edge of dry plains that are very nearly desert, and the town where we live now, where we went to college, sits on the edge between the rocky, craggy mountains and those brown-grassed plains.

But I can’t just refer to these places indirectly for however long it takes to tell the whole story.

So to that end, any way you slice it, our tale begins in a city I’ll call Geneva…


	2. spring in ingolstadt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here it is: The Smut
> 
> (and like 0 plot at all, so you can skip this one guilt-free!)

He likes it rough.

My best friend writhes under me, his breath hitching, making soft sounds that aren’t quite words; he’s trying to say my name, but he can’t make it past the first syllable.

I know he must be hurting; I couldn’t take any time to get him ready, not when he jumped me the minute we were inside his apartment. He doesn’t show it, though – only bucks his hips up to meet me, matching my rhythm.

He sucks in a deep breath, hisses my name. Between us, down where our hips meet and grind against each other, his hand moves, jerking himself off while I’m inside him. I can hear him holding back whimpers, keeping himself from calling my name. He’s always quiet when we fuck, even though no one could possibly hear us.

The muscles in his ass tighten around me and I gasp. I can’t hold out much longer.

“Vic,” I say, the word coming out little more than a gasp when he tightens around me again. It’s the best part of fucking him: he’s tight and hot around my cock, almost too good to be real. “Vic – look at me.”

He’s biting down hard on his lip, and I can feel his hand working frantically between us, the backs of his fingers brushing against my stomach. But he hears me, and his eyes snap open. His pupils are huge, and he makes a tiny whining sound when I hit his prostate directly with my next push in.

He arches his back, moves his hips, grabs my ass with his free hand; he doesn’t make any sound, but I can read _Please_ off his lips. Fucking Vic is a pleasure and a trial at the same time – it’s almost creepy how silent he is. I live for every quiet sound I get out of him; I dream of making him scream my name.

His eyes are almost glassy, and he bites down hard on his lip; I can see beads of blood forming when he tries to say my name again. It shouldn’t be so good to watch him bleed for me. Because of me.

I thrust into him hard; his eyes widen and he moans.

“Clerval,” he says, “ _Clerval_ –”

Then he starts to jerk and spasm under me, and as his muscles tighten around me I can’t help but come.

* * *

He takes care of cleanup – he always does, and insists on it. I have to wince when I watch him walking to the bathroom trash, though – there’s a big hickey blooming right on his collarbone, blood drying on his lips, and Lord help me, he's _limping_.

He slips into bed next to me, kisses my neck.

“Vic?”

“Yeah?” He grins up at me, looking lazy and relaxed.

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine. Not even bleeding.” This is his attempt at a joke – the first time we fucked was in his car, and he came out of it with a bleeding cut on the back of his head from banging it on the dashboard. Since then, he considers it good as long as he doesn’t come out bleeding.

“Uh, yeah, you are.” I reach up and touch his bottom lip.

He runs his tongue out and seems surprised to discover drying blood there. “Oh.”

Vic looks _cute_ , all cross-eyed with his tongue stuck out, so I have to laugh. “I’ll kiss it better.” I lean in and kiss him, running my tongue along his lips.

He snickers and pushes me away. “All right, I think I’m healed now.”

I tousle his hair with one hand; it’s soft as silk between my fingers. “You were limping.”

He smiles. His eyes are half-closed. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” I kiss his forehead this time.

“Mm.” He closes his eyes. “I can’t wait to have you up here all the time.”

“Not _all_ the time,” I say, running my hand through his hair to the back of his neck. He smells like sex and sweat. “I’ll have class, and I have to live on campus.”

“Freshman,” he says sleepily, teasing me. “You can come visit anytime you want.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” I rub the tense muscles at the base of his neck. I can’t keep my hands off of him, and I hate being apart from him. We’re teenagers, though, so I guess that’s how it’s supposed to be.

“Nah.” He yawns, opening one eye a sliver, then grins slyly. “Nothing more important than doing _you_.”

“Aw, fuck off.”

“Oh, Clerval,” he says, pouting. “I can’t just leave you alone.” He moves closer to me, nuzzling my shoulder with the side of his face.

I let him be for a moment, his breath hot on my skin, his hair soft against my neck.

“Vic, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, _Henry_ ,” he says, but when his lips touch the skin of my shoulder I can feel the tiny rough points of dried blood on them.

I hug him closer to me, relishing his heat, the warmth and weight of his body. “All right – but don’t blame me when you’re sore tomorrow,” I warn him.

“I won’t. It’s spring break, remember? I’m not even getting out of bed unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He won’t, either. He loves morning sex… actually, he loves sex any time of day, but he’s told me he likes morning best. Go figure.

I feign a groan. “If you plan on spending your entire break in bed, I don’t think I’ll survive.”

“I’ll be careful with you,” he promises, and his voice turns wicked when he pulls back to meet my eyes. “After all, if you’re gone, who would I fuck all day?”

“You’d find something to do.” Sometimes I think the only time he stops thinking is on the point of orgasm. Otherwise, his mind is somewhere else, only rarely even in the same room as he is. Sex is the only way to bring him back to earth – back to me.

“I’d be _bored_ , Clerval,” he says, and rocks back toward me to nip at my earlobe. “And you know how I hate being bored.”

“All right, all right, I get it,” I say, fighting laughter as he presses kisses to my neck, approaching but never quite touching the ticklish spot near my collarbone. “I’ll stay.”

“Mm. Good.” He sighs, sounding content.

“I’ll stay,” I elaborate, “ _if_ you promise to come to graduation.”

“Of course,” he says immediately. “Did you actually think I would skip your graduation?” He looks up at me, and the slice of his face I can see is puzzled. And beautiful, but for my Vic that’s basically a constant.

“I just want to be sure you’ll be there.” Vic didn’t have a graduation for me to go to, so I feel just a little guilty for demanding this of him.

“I’ll be there,” he says. “It will be hot and miserable, but I’ll be there.” He hesitates. “I do have finals that week, but I promise I’ll come, Clerval.”

“Don’t fail on account of me, man.”

“You underestimate me,” he says primly. “I doubt even you can distract me enough to cause me to fail my exams.” He bursts into laughter almost before he finishes the last word – Vic can’t even pretend to be serious with me.

But what he’s saying is true, in a way. Once Vic focuses on something, it’s almost impossible to distract him, as I’ve discovered through experience.

“But you will come, right?” He’ll forget, more likely than not, and I’ll have to call him the night before to tell him I expect to see him in Geneva the next day because he promised he’d be there. He’ll ask for what, and I’ll have to tell him it’s my graduation. After which, he will apologize, but I’ll know that it will take much more than an almost-missed high school graduation to get Victor Frankenstein to remember _anything_ that he isn’t constantly reminded of.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my dear,” he says, his voice a low purr.

“I’ll still have to remind you to come.”

He chuckles. “Either way, I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

I have officially run out of things to say to him; Geneva is hours away over roads still thick with snow, and even if Vic hadn’t jumped me for a hello fuck as soon as we were alone, I’d be plenty tired right now. I want to _sleep_.

But Victor, being Victor, is incorrigible. He’ll talk all night if I let him.

I don’t intend to.

I stroke his hair; he makes a soft humming noise. “Vic… I gotta sleep.”

“Fine.” He yawns and pushes himself away from me, sitting up in bed. “I’ll go put your graduation on my calendar so I won’t forget.”

“If you think it’ll help.” He hasn’t said anything about keeping track of events on a calendar before. Maybe it’ll work.

“I’m sure it will.” He runs a hand through his hair and stands up. He’s only wearing socks, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold. (And his ass looks _great_ , even though I’m pretty sure there’s a bruise in the shape of my hand forming where maybe I slapped him a little hard. He likes it, what can I say.)

He turns toward me, leans down and kisses my forehead. “Go to sleep, Clerval. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Make that afternoon. I could sleep forever.”

He smiles. “Goodnight.”

I keep my eyes open just a little bit longer, watching him walk out of the bedroom towards the kitchen.

He’s still limping.

* * *

Vic and I have always been close, ever since we were kids. I don’t know why we became friends in the first place, but I’m glad we did. I don’t know what I’d do without him – without Vic to get the both of us in trouble, I’d lead a very boring life.

I guess you could say I love him. And I would follow him to the ends of the earth trying to protect his oblivious ass.

In the end, that’s what gets us in trouble.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted to Tumblr: 17 October 2012.
> 
> Original author's notes, from the Tumblr post:
> 
> I was digging in the email account I used in high school and I found an entire folder of writing fragments I had emailed to myself.
> 
> I really should have turned back then.
> 
> In my senior year of high school, I was – obsessively attracted to – Frankenstein. I carried my copy everywhere with me, and I never shut the fuck up about it, especially the homoerotic themes therein.
> 
> At some point in the fall of that year, this interest broke and recrystallized, and I endeavored to make something of it.
> 
> I would write, I decided (at least according to the notes I made that have survived), a retelling of Frankenstein, set in the modern day, wherein Victor and his dearest friend, Clerval, were lovers.
> 
> I didn’t get very far in the draft, but this is what came of it (less some scatterbrained plans and a few fragments which didn’t even amount to whole scenes).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here it is: More Smut
> 
> (less smut than the last chapter but still)

I don’t even get to knock on the damn door before Vic yanks it open. He looks flushed, his eyes glassy-bright as they flicker over me, and his breathing is heavy.

_Jesus, Vic, what did you do this time?_

“Inside _now_ ,” he growls, and I know something’s up. The only time he’s ever jumped me like this was months ago, and at least then he wasn’t naked when he answered the door.

I take a step inside, and Vic bends double like someone punched him in the gut; he lets out a little whimper, hugging himself tightly like that’ll stop whatever’s going on.

“Is something wrong?”

“Shut the door,” he gasps. He straightens up most of the way, flicks his hair out of his eyes with a motion of his head. I’m frozen in place. “Shut the door, Clerval.”

“Fine.” I turn and push it closed, then lock it.

Vic’s arms are still clutched tight around his torso; he’s breathing in tortured little gasps and sighs, like he has to fight for every breath.

“What’s wrong?” I’m demanding now, not asking, because fuck if I’m going to be the one to break the news to his parents that their son is a dumbshit and caught an exotic parasite or something.

“Remember when you told me–” he inhales sharply “–never to experiment on myself?”

I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake, because that’s my cardinal rule for him: I don’t care what he does, as long as he doesn’t fuck himself up doing it. “What the hell did you do?”

“What does it _look_ like?” His fingers dig into the smooth skin of his back, like he’s trying to restrain himself.

What it looks like is like I wandered into porn. _You wanted sausage on that pizza, right?_

Vic’s cock is red and swollen, the veins standing out in relief under the skin, drops of precum smeared on the head.

“Seriously, dude?” I say, trying to play off with sarcasm the fact that, okay, he looks pretty great naked and it’s kind of giving me a boner. “Next time just jack off, don’t wait for me all naked and creeper-like.”

“You think I didn’t try that?” he says bitterly, and since I’ve already got my eyes on his cock I see it jerk a little; he makes another little whimper. “Please, Clerval.”

“Please _what_?” I shuck my jacket, let it drop on the floor.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Anything.” He shudders, clenches his hands into tight fists.

I drop to my knees in front of him. I can play this game. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit how much of this did I write -- _I mean_ , gosh, more of this survived than I thought. This would've been a sex-pollen scene if I'd ever finished it, but uh, outlook not so good on that.
> 
> Posted on Tumblr: 14 June 2013.


	4. Chapter 4

“Can you hear me?”

His pulse is steady -– slow, but steady – respirations regular and deep. Vic can’t reach the cuff from where he stands, but blood pressure _feels_ normal.

“I know you’re in there.”

Vic sighs, grabs his penlight, absently smacks it against his palm to jar the batteries back into place. Cheap piece of shit.

His eyes – _Adam’s_ eyes – open, and when Vic looks up they focus on him. Pupils respond normally, he notes. The iris is the color of surgical steel, set against inky pupils and slightly yellow whites.

Vic grins lopsidedly. “Hello there.”

A weak groan, sounds kind of like _Hello_ to Vic’s ears.

“I gotta check some stuff real quick, okay?” He pats Adam’s shoulder.

He rechecks pulse, gets the cuff for blood pressure. Pulse is a little higher, blood pressure in the normal range.

He turns on the penlight, checks pupil dilation. Faced with bright light, the pupils contract, both in sync. No brain damage there. And he tracks motion. Good.

The penlight and blood pressure cuff go onto the workdesk to the side, and Vic grabs his stethoscope. He warms it briefly against his palm.

“This is gonna be a little cold,” he warns before pressing the little disk to Adam’s chest. “Okay. Keep breathing.”

Everything sounds normal in there, no rattling sounds, no liquid, no anything abnormal.

“Okay. Done.” He tosses the stethoscope aside, frowns as he looks at Adam. Circulation appears normal; he brushes the back of his hand against Adam’s feet and hands, checking to make sure they’re not cold. Nope. Warm. 

Adam stares at him, perplexed. Vic smiles at him. “Sorry about that,” he chatters, voice bright against the November greyness. “Had to check your vitals, make sure you’re not gonna conk out on me.“

Honestly, Vic has no idea what to say. He’s a doctor, not a psychologist. This is, frankly, not his field… and, all right, interfering in it probably wasn’t the greatest idea.

* * *

Vic tried hard to make everything work out for the best, though, even if he didn’t know it at the time.

He needed music to work, but his usual poundy punk stylings made his hands shake, splashing serum everywhere and stabbing himself with needles. No good. In came jazz, classic rock, and classical. His stitches were tiny and even, his hands a little steadier.

(So instead of only electricity and sloshing liquid, there are violins or the Beatles. OK, not instead of, but as an accompaniment to, almost drowning them out. Here, like horseshoes, almost counts.)

He got bored and cold in the evenings, and his coat was getting threadbare anyway. So instead he set up camp in the back room and read his textbooks aloud. Or whatever came to hand, since more often than not the reading was laughably easy.

Anyway, it was warm in the back room – the equipment running near-constantly kept it at a bearable temperature, the cycling batteries discharging a constant low-level heat of their own.

(Instead of a cold lonely stone room, there’s a place with posters taped to the wall and an even voice reading or arguing with itself. It’s still stone, and there’s an edge of cold below the hum and heat of machines crowding the walls, but there’s a cheery, cramped humanity to the little back room.)

He liked the sound of German best, so when he got bored of English, or of murmuring through mathematical equations, he pulled out _Faust_ and tried to fumble through it. He still cheated from the included translation, but he thought his accent might be getting better. And it beat organizing his closet any day.

(Instead of only English, there’s German to break the monotony; the rhythm of poetry in a different language, one faintly familiar. _I remember this_ he thinks – when he stretches out his mind he knows words, only a scattered few, but still, _words_ from the babble of sounds _._ )

And of course, there was always work to be done. Mostly the serum took care of the delicate work, but it couldn’t do anything unless he made sure the tissues had contact. So there was always stitching to be done.

God, he hated stitching.

(There’s no pain, not until his nerves start to come online, and by then most of the stitching is done and the man with the needle is mostly taking the stitches _out_ of him, not putting them in. It hurts, but it’s dull and it feels kind of good, this taking out something that’s foreign to his flesh. He feels more like himself.)

The serum itself was grunt work to apply – a brush or a soft cloth, soaked in the stuff, applied to both surfaces before they were sewn together – but the electricity… that was kind of fun. Just enough to help stimulate growth, not enough to bring true _life._

He wasn’t sure what the difference was, but assumed he’d know it when he saw it.

(Electricity and the goop both tickle a little, even before his nerves really come online. It’s like his individual cells feel it, and communicate that feeling between themselves without recourse to nervous tissue. The goop is faintly warm as well, and that’s when he begins to remember heat.)

For the most part, things worked out.

* * *

"All right,” Vic says. “I feel like I should introduce myself.” He stifles a smile, almost puts out a hand, rethinks it. “My name is Vic,” he says, unable to resist the media-induced compulsion to tap himself on the breastbone when he does, “and you… I’ve been calling you Adam.”

Adam stares at him for a moment, his eyes pensive. But he isn’t staring, which is both weird and hopeful at the same time – is he shy, or does he remember that staring is rude?

Finally he raises one hand and taps his own sternum before making an inarticulate sound that, to Vic, sounds close enough to ‘Adam’ for government work.

_So where do I go from here?_ Vic thinks, not for the first time or the last. The glow of the streetlight outside coming on catches his eye.

“You need clothes,” he says. This morning he dressed Adam in scrubs, the closest he had to pajamas (Vic doesn’t remember the last time he slept somewhere that wasn’t just wherever he happened to be working last), but he can see the beginnings of a chill in the tips of Adam’s fingers, the normally blood-filled, sensitive pads of the fingers turning paler.

He’s gotten Adam to sit up, to stand with the table for support – human newborns can’t stand, even holding onto a support, until about eight months, and Adam has been awake perhaps ten _minutes_.

Can he walk?

Vic suspects _yes_.

He steps back a few paces, enough that Adam can’t reach him. “Adam? Can you come over here, please?”

Adam looks at him, then at the floor, then back up at Vic.

_Come on,_ Vic thinks, _I know you can do this_.

One foot in front of the other, bare on the hardwood floor – _socks, where the hell did I put socks_ – and Adam totters slowly, arms outstretched for balance, towards his creator.

Vic lets out a little breath when Adam crashes into him, then stabilizes, using him as a support. _Okay. Holy shit_. _Now what?_

Adam is one _fuck_ of a lot taller than he is. Well. Maybe not a lot, but Vic comes up to his chin maybe, if he stands on his tip-toes. Right now Adam is hanging on to him while he tries to figure out this _balance_ thing, and Vic’s head is against his sternum.

When he was putting Adam together, he went for size because it was easy. Apparently he didn’t think that once Adam was properly _alive,_ he was going to be around two hundred pounds of clumsy newborn. At his heaviest Vic was maybe one forty, if that. And right now he’s more like one twenty, maybe a little bit more.

Adam gets his balance and wobbles away from Vic a little – he’s getting a handle on equilibrium, trying out walking on his own, and holy shit if he keeps going this fast he’ll be declaring war on someone by noon tomorrow.

Vic squares his shoulders, looks up to meet Adam’s eyes. “Okay. Let’s go get you some clothes – you look cold. Are you?”

Adam nods.

_Okay, maybe that’s coincidence,_ Vic thinks, but yeah, he kind of doubts that. Like a lot.

Now, how’s he going to do this?

He steps forward and puts one arm around Adam’s ribs, then reconsiders and reaches up to grab Adam’s shoulder. Jesus Christ, why did he have to make the guy so _tall_.

“Let’s go,” he says, and they take an awkward step forward, Vic leading.

Oh yeah. Great start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more characteristic of what the whole fic would've been, but I guess this is all that's left. The next chapter contains only some planning documents I dug up, so this is, legit, all there is.
> 
> Posted to Tumblr 26 October 2014.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plans I had for the rest of the fic. I think this picks up immediately after what you've just read.
> 
> From the original author's notes: Part of the conceit of the story is that Clerval and Victor aren’t separated by circumstance as in the novel – Henry joins Victor in Ingolstadt much earlier, and is thus on hand for a dramatic confrontation scene.
> 
> I planned out a long setup for two years or so of story before that scene, but what matters is that it’s been about two years since Henry came to college in Ingolstadt, and Victor has been deteriorating visibly for all of them.

Vic emerges from summer tired and wan, but insists he is fine. He is delaying his application to med school until he finishes a project he is working on. Curious, Clerval inquires what this could be. Vic refuses to answer.

Vic deliberately rejects contact attempts by Clerval during the beginning of the semester; Clerval notes that his sleeping patterns have changed [non-existent] and that he seems very skittish and shy when they do speak.

At Thanksgiving break, Clerval realizes that he hasn’t spoken to Victor for weeks. He arranges a meeting at the cafe; Vic appears in unwashed clothes, unshaven, looking thin, sleepless, and overall badly used. What worries Clerval, though, is the multiple bruises on Vic’s arms and hands, as well as his fading black eye. He demands an explanation. Vic counters with ‘Not here!’.

At Vic’s apartment Clerval pretty much forces him to show the extent of his bruises. And they are extensive – besides the arms and hands, his ribs are wrapped as if they’ve been broken, and there’s a fading bruise around his neck. Vic is also limping. Clerval freaks out – 'tell me who did this to you so I can kill him nice and slow’ – and Vic tries to talk him down. Clerval won’t be dissuaded and demands to know who did this. Vic resists, but eventually gives in.

[PS: I didn’t clarify this later in the document, but Victor’s injuries are indeed due to Adam not knowing his own strength and accidentally injuring his father. Victor’s frailty is a running theme through the entire story as I imagined it, then and now.]

We meet the monster – a tall, awkward, rather jaundiced thing with long hair carefully pulled back in a ponytail (this in contrast to Vic’s own messy appearance), wearing old clothes retailored to fit him. Clerval recoils, but Vic won’t let him leave. 'So this is the guy that did it? Why do you even let him stay here?’ Vic puts one arm around the monster – since the monster towers over him it’s a pretty strange visual – and makes an introduction. 'I can’t kick him out, Clerval.’ 'Why not?’ 'He’s… kind of my son. Clerval, this is Adam. Adam, this is Clerval.’

'Your SON? What the hell have you been doing? Are you cheating on me? What the fuck?’ 'It’s hard to explain.’ 

Vic asks Adam to walk and demonstrate other physical abilities – 'walk heel-to-toe’, whatever – in an attempt to impress Clerval, then gently explains that he created Adam through a combination of technobabble, pseudo-science, possible graverobbing, electricity, and general creeping. 

Natch, Clerval is not pleased, and starts off a shouting match with Vic. 'This is illegal!’ 'Science is outside the law!’ Eventually, he tells Vic that his work can never be acknowledged – he will never receive compensation for this, only horror and revulsion. 

Vic feigns being untouched and orders Clerval to leave. From the hall, Clerval hears a thump, a brief struggle, and quiet sobbing.

Clerval wants to be a hardass and just walk away – he made his bed, let him lie in it – but he can’t. He shoulders the door open (ouch! mistake) and finds Vic passed out on the floor with the monster crouched over him. Natch, he assumes the worst and calls the police. 

The police take the monster into custody; Vic is beginning to regain consciousness and refuses an ambulance. He collapses again after they leave, however. 'It’s all my fault…’

Clerval vows to stay with Vic until he’s well again, but has to leave very briefly. He promises to return as soon as he can.

The monster escapes custody and returns to the only home he’s ever known. Vic has to make a tough call – let him remain and face the police, or force him out into the world and avoid persecution. Unfortunately, Vic is young and inexperienced.

Worried that Clerval will return, Vic hurriedly (and reluctantly) tells the monster to leave Ingolstadt. 'Wait for me outside of town… I’ll meet you there.’ He gives the monster one of his old coats to protect him against the cold, hugs him, and sends him on his way.

Clerval returns. Vic insists that he leave; he can take care of himself. Reluctantly, Clerval leaves Vic alone… for a moment, until he sees that Vic is white in the face and gasping for breath from the effort of taking a few steps and talking to Clerval. Turns out his broken ribs have left him with a nice case of pneumonia. 

Vic insists that he’ll heal fine at home, and that he can’t pay hospital bills anyway. Clerval is almost ready to believe him, and nurse him through his illness at the apartment, but Vic can hardly breathe. What to do – obey his friend’s wishes, or obey his own instincts?

Against his instincts, Clerval doesn’t take Vic to the hospital. However, even Mr. Poet can see that Vic is malnourished and hasn’t slept in weeks, and Clerval makes him soup before forcing him to sleep.

However, the worm turns: after the soup, Clerval falls asleep and Vic sneaks out into the night, intending to meet the monster. 

He hurries out of town as best he can, keeping to the shadows, all that. He arrives at the meeting place he specified to the monster… but no one is there, and it’s beginning to snow.

Shivering, Vic searches for Adam, calling his name, everything. He finds nothing, not even footprints. He recognizes his own weakness, but refuses to leave Adam out in the cold.

Ironically, Adam is much better equipped for cold than his father. Nearing the end of his stamina, Vic staggers into town, persuading himself that he’s still looking for Adam. He collapses on the stairs of his apartment building, half-frozen.

Clerval wakes up and can’t find Vic in the apartment. He throws on pants and runs outside to find him, nearly tripping over Vic in the process. He carries Vic into the apartment.

Spending the night mostly inside with heating has kept Vic alive, but he wasn’t doing himself any favors running around outside. He can breathe, but otherwise he’s basically limited to tottering a few steps at most, even with Clerval supporting him and taking most of his weight. 'This is totally outside my ability to cope with.’

Vic is admitted to the hospital – he’s young and relatively healthy, so his prognosis is hopeful. However, there is a chance he won’t pull through, and he will need to rest for a while after he’s released from the hospital.

Adam is totally lost and adrift. All he has known to this point has been Vic’s apartment, and now he’s out on the street. Previously, too, Vic was kind to him – but then suddenly he cast Adam out. He’s confused and hurting, and he has nowhere to stay. He waited at the meeting place for Vic, but when Vic didn’t show he wandered back into town, looking for him. Maybe they actually walked by each other and didn’t notice, hah.

Oh, incidentally – what Clerval heard was Vic fainting due to undiagnosed pneumonia, followed by Adam attempting to wake him and failing.

Anyway. Unsure whether he should try to go home, Adam wanders the streets during the night. As the sun rises, he succumbs to homesickness and fear of the unknown: he goes to Vic’s apartment, via luck. No one is there, but it’s warm and familiar. He curls up on his bed in the spare room and goes to sleep.

Clerval returns to Vic’s apartment. He’s tired, afraid for Vic, and on-edge. So when he finds Adam in the apartment, he flips an epic bitch, blaming Adam for everything that’s going wrong, including Vic being ill.

Hurt, Adam flees into the winter, still wearing Vic’s loaner coat. Clerval watches him booking through the falling snow, heading out of town. He’s satisfied, but when he crawls into Vic’s bed to get some sleep he wipes away a few tears with the edge of the blanket. Man gotta cry sometimes, son.

Vic heals up. Adam is officially being sought by the police, but Vic pretty well convinces them that it’s fine, it’s fine, they just had a little disagreement. They don’t have any leads anyway, so the case kind of stagnates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would've originally been in an overly complex bulleted list, but that formatting didn't survive the transition to Tumblr, much less to AO3, so I went through and kludged things together as best I could. So if it reads like disjointed garbage, that's because it is.
> 
> It's very, very unlikely I'll ever return to this in this form, but I guess that this does show that "Frankenstein AU where Clerval forces Victor to take responsibility" has been on my mind for _years_.
> 
> Posted to Tumblr 26 October 2014.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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